


The Strategist and the Redhead; Part 5

by ignis_scientia_estrogen_brigade



Series: The Strategist and the Redhead [5]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-26
Updated: 2017-06-26
Packaged: 2018-11-19 02:33:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11303931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignis_scientia_estrogen_brigade/pseuds/ignis_scientia_estrogen_brigade
Summary: This series of fics features an OC that originated from a brief headcanon I wrote in the early days of The Ignis Scientia Estrogen Brigade; they were written out of chronological order, so I apologize for any inconsistencies you might happen to come across. This particular fic was inspired by a lingerie-themed Chocobro headcanon I wrote on my Tumblr account (link in my profile).





	The Strategist and the Redhead; Part 5

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place before the start of in-game events. And no, the redhead doesn't have a name. Sorry. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ It might help to read the other parts for character context, but it's not entirely necessary as long as you like Ignis smut. Enjoy!

They have a routine, the strategist and the redhead; she waits in the shadows of his apartment landing near midnight, listening for the audible  _click_  of his front door unlocking to signal that the coast is clear; he greets her with a chaste peck on the cheek and a steaming cup of Ebony when she finally tiptoes inside; they seat themselves around the living room and chat politely for thirty minutes or so, about this and that and all sorts of mundane things, until they both silently acknowledge the real reason why she is here and discard their clothes in the hall on their way to the bedroom.

It’s a comfortable routine, something she has to look forward to after a long day at the Citadel, something that hasn’t changed in the weeks and months since she’d involved herself with the strategist. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee always succeeds at putting her mind at ease, as does the deep vibrato of his voice when he mutters the latest complaint against his royal charge. Even the slight narrowing of his eyes indicating his desire for intimacy is customary, for Ignis Scientia is nothing if not entirely consistent in his mannerisms, and the redhead knows the only expectation either one of them will have for the evening is just how long it takes for her to cry out his name.

Which is why it’s decidedly  _un_ expected when she sees him pushing a large rectangular box across the coffee table in her direction. “What’s this?”

“A gift,” he says, in the clipped accent they both share. “Of sorts.”

She peers down warily at the violet ribbon wrapped around the package before turning a dubious eye on him. “For me? I scarcely would’ve taken you for the charitable type.”

“More for me, actually. Although it would be an added bonus if it was to your liking.” He takes a sip from his Ebony, and then nods toward the box. “Go on—see if it suits your tastes.”

She hesitates, somewhat puzzled by this curious break in their habitualness, but concedes to his request and tugs on the end of the ribbon. Once she’s removed the lid, she is met with a plethora of tissue paper; it takes her a few moments to unearth what lies beneath, and she laughs aloud when she finally recognizes the shimmer of satin and lace textiles. “Really, Ignis?  _Unmentionables?_ ”

“They can’t really be considered unmentionables once you’ve mentioned them, now can they?”

The way the corners of his lips turn upward into a faint smirk is both utterly endearing and entirely exacerbating, and she resists the urge to sigh. “And what, precisely, do you expect me to do with these?”

“Wear them, I would hope. Preferably for me, but I obviously can’t stop you from entertaining lesser fools.”

She pegs him with a tart glance before returning her attention to the contents of the package; a pair of sheer black stockings is nestled between a matching garter-and-panty set, and she catches a glimpse of indigo silk beneath the lacy undergarments.

She then withdraws the purple article from the box and holds it up teasingly. “Your fashion sensibilities are certainly predictable. Did you purchase this from the same tailor who designs your dress shirts?”

The boned corset in her hands is indeed crafted from a similar Coeurl-print pattern the strategist favors in his own wardrobe, although this evening he is sporting a dark button-up shirt and necktie, likely due to a late night council meeting. “Not quite,” he replies. “I picked it up from the department store yesterday when I was with Noctis.”

She is almost positive he delights in the look of horror that crosses her features. “With the _prince?_ What in Astrals were you thinking?”

“Come now, I’m more discreet than that.” He crosses one knee over the other and swirls his mug around demurely. “Umbra showed up just as Noct was buying new tube socks, and he asked me to bugger off for a bit. I took the liberty to make my purchases and was back before he could finish dotting his I’s with little hearts.”

“And you weren’t the least bit worried about being caught browsing the ladies intimate apparel section? Not concerned with any...  _assumptions_  the cashier might’ve made about you?”

The strategist shrugs. “Not at all. Even if someone were to suspect I was buying lingerie for myself, the whole Citadel knows I have nicer legs than anyone.” He then tosses her a wink. “Your included.”

She has half a mind to swipe her foot across the sensitive part of his shins, but the sight of multiple zeroes printed on the label affixed to the corset derails her malevolent intentions. “Goodness,” she breathes, and draws the label closer to confirm her eyes aren’t playing tricks on her. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were trying to impress me.”

“Hardly,” he scoffs, draining the last of his beverage before setting his empty cup aside. “I merely wanted to ensure durable enough construction that wouldn’t fall apart immediately after putting it on. And besides—if you’d rejected my offerings outright without the tags, I’d be a few hundred credits lighter and nothing but aching testicles to show for it.”

She drops the corset back into the box with the other items and replaces the lid. “You could’ve always worn them yourself. Or perhaps your legs aren’t as shapely as you think?”

It’s admittedly one of her favorite aspects of entertaining the strategist, this delightful battle of wits; she cocks a mischievous eyebrow in his direction, poised and ready to counter his incoming barb with a pointed one of her own. But his green orbs soften behind his spectacles, and he surprises her—just as he did when he set the package in front of her moments ago—by reaching across the table and taking her hand in his own.

“I’d rather like to see you wear them,” he says quietly. “Won’t you consider humoring this stuffy chamberlain just for one evening?”

For a split second, the walls guarding her mind draw up; it was rather unlike him, the stoic personality he most often was, to reveal any signs of weakness around her, and the details of their arrangement never explicitly addressed the specifics pertaining to unusual fetishes or lewd requests. But his proposal wasn’t completely out of the ordinary for a lover—nor even particularly lewd, when the she really thought about it—and the earnestness in his eyes curbs her skepticism.

So she draws herself up from her seat without another word, the box of unmentionables tucked under one arm and her gaze trained on him as she strolls off in the direction of the master bedroom. When he’s out of her line of sight, she enters the on-suite bathroom and closes the door behind her; she then sets the package down on the marbled vanity beside the sink and removes the lid once more.

She hefts the bodice from the box and holds it against her torso, and her nose wrinkles as she stares at her reflection in the mirror. The redhead may have been the object of considerable desire within the walls of the royal palace, but she can’t even remember the last time she’d agreed to compress her organs for the sake of beauty. She wonders if perhaps the strategist is growing bored with her, dressing her up like a plaything in a final effort to coax the last remaining vestiges of attraction he still harbors for her, until she remembers that there are far more economical ways of getting one’s rocks off than dropping a few hundred Crown City credits on couture underwear.

She eventually discards the wardrobe she wore to his apartment and sets to work. The panties, stockings, and garter are straightforward enough, but the corset bindings are packaged separately from the bodice, and when she unravels them she finds herself tangled up in several meters of cording. She may be an expert at lacing a pair of combat boots, but ladies shape wear proves to be another beast entirely; it takes her ten minutes to thread the binding through the narrow grommets enough for her to squeeze herself into the overly complex garment.

When she moves to adjust it, however, she is left with an excessive amount of binding in both her hands; what the purpose was of having six feet of rope when she only needed two to hang herself with eludes her entirely, and she spends yet another ten minutes trying to figure out why only the bottom half of the bodice will tighten when she pulls on the end of the cords.

“Need a hand?”

She snaps her head around, and her eyes lock on to the lanky figure leaning against the threshold. “How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough to recognize you haven’t the slightest clue how to lace a corset properly.” The strategist moves into the bathroom and stops behind her, gliding his fingers gently across her neck as he shifts her long tresses to one side. “Allow me to enlighten you.”

The tightening around her ribs eases abruptly, and her spine begins to tingle when she feels his warm breath on her shoulder. “It’s not polite to sneak up on people like that,” she says in a low voice. “I didn’t even hear you open the door.”

“I’ve made a career out of sneaking up on people. Are you really surprised?”

“Hm. I suppose not.”

His hands move quickly, tugging on the binding and rethreading them from the bottom up. When he reaches the grommets centered near her waist, he picks up the other end of the cording and begins lacing them through alternating holes from the top down. She studies his face in the reflection of the mirror while he works, his bespectacled features furrowed with the same razor-keen focus he would dedicate to any other task, imperative or otherwise; she has witnessed his awesome powers of concentration before, whether he is channeling the celestial magic of the crystal the sovereigns of Lucis have bestowed upon him, or taking notes in a boring council meeting, or even—nay,  _especially_ —when he is making love to her in the earliest hours of twilight.

“There’s a method behind lacing a corset,” he explains, tying off the ends of the cord at the two lowest grommets and tugging on the excess binding looped at her waist. “Pull on these ones”—he clutches at the bottom strands—“and it tightens the lower half. Pull on these ones”—his grip switches to the top strands—“and it tightens the upper half. Makes it easier to distribute the tension more evenly.”

As the compression surrounding her ribcage equalizes, the redhead surmises she learns something new about him every day; how he takes his coffee, what section of the newspaper he prefers to read first, how deep the rabbit hole of his perverted psyche actually goes. “You seem to be quite the authority on corsetry.”

He secures the loops of the binding into a snug knot; then he slips a hand around her waist, drawing her close and touching his lips to her ear. “I like my presents wrapped as much as anyone.” 

Her eyelids flutter shut when she feels his arousal pressing against the small of her back. “Seems a shame to go through the trouble of putting everything on, only to take it all off again.”

“Who said anything about taking it off?”

Finally, she turns to face him. “You’re going to have to,” she says, gesturing to the panties that are trapped firmly between her stockings and garter belt. “Unless you plan on fucking me through my underwear somehow.”

Neither one of them was in the habit of employing vulgar language with any regularity; they both had reputations at the Citadel to uphold, and at times it seemed like they were the last two remaining consummate professionals amidst the likes of bawdier individuals like Gladiolus Amicitia and Libertus Ostium. Still, the occasional use of more…  _colorful_  vocabulary held a certain measure of gravity, and indeed her expletive has its desired effect; his cheek twitches as he takes a step toward her, and she can see the fire of lust flaring behind his emerald eyes.

“Is that a challenge?” he asks.

It’s rather unbecoming of her to bait him like that, and she knows it; he may be  _The Strategist_ , but he’s still just a man, and it was hardly fair of her to tease his ardor without giving any serious thought of following through with her insinuation.

But then she’s reminded of all the times he’s held the upper hand and delayed her gratification to agonizing lengths, and there was something about wearing a corset and thigh-highs that is making her feel empowered besides; she meets his gaze with a wicked one of her own, and reaches up to loosen the tie around his neck. “Since you managed to persuade me into donning this little outfit of yours,” she purrs, “I was wondering if I might make an inquiry of my own.”

His jaw clenches in visible restraint as she slips the tie out from under his collar. “But of course.”

“How much do you trust me?”

His gaze then drifts to the knot she is suddenly tightening around his right hand. “About as much as I trust anyone fettering my wrist with my own necktie, I suppose.”

When she is content with the strength of her makeshift shackle, she guides him to lean his lower back against the vanity countertop. “It’s just that you have a tendency to make sure my needs are met without ever giving any thought to your own. I find that rather troublesome.”

His face betrays the faintest hint of apprehension as she snakes the long end of the tie around the back of the sink faucet. “I’m certainly not feeling neglected, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Be that as it may, there’s a notable disparity between my efforts and yours. I was hoping to rectify that particular oversight.”

Only when she attempts to seize his unfettered wrist does he finally interrupt her machinations. “While I wholly appreciate your concern,” he says, raising his left hand away from her and out of reach, “I’m not sure if this is the best solution to an imaginary problem.”

She doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction of watching her leap futilely after her target, so she levels him with a steely gaze instead. “Afraid of turning the wheel over to someone else, for once?”

“No, but in my experience, bondage without the advantage of forethought rarely ever goes as planned.”

The hairs on the back of her neck tingle in mild irritation; she drops the end of the necktie on the vanity and lowers her voice to nearly a whisper. “I never ask you for anything, Ignis. You’re the one who leaves your front door unlocked every night, not me.”

The words left unspoken linger like a specter in the tiled room; she had no way of predicting from the start where exactly this dalliance of theirs would take her, but she’d done all she could to play by the rules,  _her_  rules, the ones that explicitly stated this was merely an agreement between two consenting individuals, where they could express themselves privately in ways they otherwise could not. She certainly would never have been able to envision herself clad in nylon and expensive silk with her buttocks on full display, at the behest of a man who had cooked for her and shared his bed and had even engaged with her in the occasional lover’s spat, and who for all of Eos felt like a loyal and doting husband in everything but name.

He adjusts his spectacles across the bridge of his nose, and she can see the wheels turning in his mind, weighing her desire to please him against his need to always be in control. After a moment, he heaves a long-suffering sigh and extends his left wrist in her direction. “I suppose we ought to agree upon a safe word.”

She can’t quite conceal the smile tugging at the corners of her lips, and moves to secure his outstretched hand with the remaining slack of the necktie. “I’m not sure that’s necessary. The worst that could happen is you uproot your faucet.”

“And send a geyser flooding through the apartment?” He shakes his head woefully. “My renter’s insurance would positively skyrocket.”

When she is finished tethering his wrists to the polished brass fixture behind his back, and is confident he won’t be able to immediately break loose the instant her mouth meets any sensitive flesh, she traces her fingers lightly across his smooth cheeks and draws him close. “I’ll try not to be the reason for any permanent water damage,” she says, as the distance between their lips vanishes, “but I can’t make any promises.”

It’s a wholly unique experience, kissing the strategist whilst his arms are bound; his hands are usually everywhere at once, tangled in her hair, caressing her breasts, slipping beneath the waistband of her panties to massage her aching nub. But the tables have suddenly turned, the onus of his pleasure firmly in the palm of her own hands, and she almost doesn’t know what to do with herself now that she isn’t having to clutch at the walls just to hold herself upright under his devilish ministrations.

_Almost._

His shirt is still buttoned and, without the present use of his limbs, it might’ve remained that way for a while longer if her desire to undress him hadn’t been entirely innate. But since the instinct to strip the clothes right off his back was as involuntary as breathing, she doesn’t even need to break their kiss for her fingers to find and unfasten the top three closures; two more, and she’s drinking in the flavor of Ebony and spiced cologne as she explores his tongue; the final two, and she’s parting his tunic like the curtains of a window and pressing her body tightly against his warm chest.

His mouth drifts across her cheek and follows the outline of her jaw, but his lips stop just shy of her left earlobe when his restraints prevent him from leaning in any farther. “I hope you don’t intend to imprison me like this for too terribly long,” he says.

His shoulders flex under the hand she is gliding over his collarbone, presumably testing the durability of the tie against the strength of his own wrists. She then trails her fingers down his abdomen, encircling his navel once before untucking the hem of his shirt from his waistband. “I loathe to disappoint you, but I’m only just getting started.”

A curious noise bubbles out of his throat just then, scarcely audible enough for her to hear, but sounding halfway between a frustrated whine and a carnal growl. The expression settling in across his features conveys a more telling tale; his lips are parted and his jaw is set, and he lowers his chin to his chest when she presses the palm of her hand against the bulging in his trousers. Her other hand is snaked around his neck and gripping at the base of his scalp—just the way she knows he likes it, because of  _course_  she knows, because tugging on his tawny hair only served to urge his arousal onward in the past.

But he can’t do anything about it like he could before, since the tie fettering his wrists has held up remarkably well thus far; he conveys his annoyance at being shackled against his will by biting gently on her lower lip. The hand she has resting on his groin moves to tackle his belt buckle, and she releases the zipper of his trousers with deft fingers before pulling away from him and dropping to her knees. The strategist didn’t spend several hundred credits on intimate apparel just to view the evening’s entertainment from the nosebleed section, however, so the redhead makes sure her posture is such that the lacy undergarment dividing her backside is suitably conspicuous from his birds-eye perspective.

“I just had a thought,” he says suddenly. “The bathroom’s not exactly the most hygienic place for this kind of activity. Perhaps we should move into the bedroom?”

“And spoil my fun? I think not.” She glances up and cocks a teasing eyebrow at him. “Besides—knowing you, you probably sterilized every square inch of this apartment with industrial strength bleach before I arrived.”

“Regardless if that were true, the floor tiles can’t possibly be comfortable on your kneecaps.”

She then threads her fingers beneath the waistband of his fitted boxer briefs and tosses him a wink. “Itching for release, are we? I’m getting there.”

He doesn’t get the chance to counter her argument before she is tugging down on the garment and liberating him from the constricting fabric. For a brief moment, her pride swells at the sight of his warm and rigid flesh; any and all doubts she had about boring him are quickly forgotten upon seeing his erection standing at full attention. She wraps her fingers tentatively around the base of his shaft and slips the other hand beneath the hem of his shirt, tickling his hip; her eyes lock onto his for half a heartbeat, long enough to enjoy his expression of pleasure mingled with sheer torture when she finally takes him into her mouth.

“Be reasonable,” he says hoarsely. “You can’t expect me to remain upright in this position if you continue like this.”

She subdues his protests by drawing him in closer; a silent gasp escapes his lips when the head of his shaft meets the back of her throat, and she can feel his right leg quiver slightly through his trousers. She drops the hand she has at his waist and squeezes his thigh to ease his trembling, withdrawing from him briefly to focus her attention on the sensitive tip. As she traces circles around it with her tongue, she catches a glimpse of his face out of the corner of her peripheral vision; his eyes are closed, his forehead furrowed in concentration—or is it dread?—and his lips are pressed together in a thin line.

She hears a soft  _clank_  when she returns him fully back into her mouth, and glances up to see his shoulders working against his restraints. “Please consider reneging on your proposal,” he whispers, his eyes still firmly shut. “I’m not sure how much more of this I can take before I break something.”

But she doesn’t consider reneging on anything, not even for a nanosecond, because it’s not often she has the chance to witness the strategist at his most exposed, and the look of pure, naked vulnerability on his face has lit a fire in her belly that is quickly turning into a roaring blaze. Instead, she redoubles her efforts and encompasses him nearly to the point of choking herself on his flesh-and-blood sword; the trembling in his thigh has grown more pronounced, and the muscles of his bare abdomen twitch furiously with every flick of her tongue. His spectacles have shifted and are creeping down the bridge of his nose, so he throws his head back and grits his teeth to stifle the cry of ecstasy clawing its way up his throat.

She is employing every tool at her disposal to please him now—she’s appropriated the fingers of her right hand into a makeshift cock ring, trapping his member between her thumb and forefinger to prevent the flow of blood from exiting the tissue of his shaft, while the ones on her left gently massage the delicate part of his scrotum. Her slow oral ministrations have given way to a more rigorous pace, and the copious amount of saliva that is currently coating his loins provides a suitably slick lubricant with which to prime her throat. She takes him in deeper, but he doesn’t thrust against her; if anything, he appears to be yielding away from her, and for a moment she wonders whether his reticence is a result of her accidentally nicking him with her teeth.

But then she hears the sound of ragged gasps rattling around in his lungs, and is alerted to other signs of his imminent climax approaching; his flavor on her tongue has changed slightly and the temperature of his skin has risen, and the base of his shaft is pulsating as his body prepares to conclude its natural cycle. Maintaining a steady rhythm is key, she knows, so she reaches for the pockets of his trousers and clutches at his hips—partly to balance herself from her increasingly vigorous movements, and partly to ensure the strategist has no way of escaping the inevitable.

She would’ve patted herself on the back for her near-record time it took to bring him to orgasm, had her hands otherwise not been occupied; the sound of his breath catching in his throat is drowned out by the  _clank clank clank_  of his wrists wrenching violently against the gilded faucet. “Darling, I—I can’t—”

She has but a moment to decide which way the next few seconds will go. Hold fast, and her throat might reject his milky offerings; withdraw, and he’ll spill his seed all over her expensive corset.  _It’s his own damned fault for spending such a ludicrous amount of money on lingerie_ , she thinks, but she’s far too pragmatic to allow fine silk to be ruined over a few teaspoons of semen; in the end, she takes her chances and silently prays her body won’t betray her.

It’s not so much the flavor that catches her off guard, but the  _heat_ ; for a man christened after fire incarnate, it ought not to have surprised her to discover his seed ran as hot as his libido. She presses her eyes shut out of fear for how her mouth will react to the intrusion, but—mercifully—her gag reflex remains dormant, so she relaxes into him and allows the warm fluid to pool on her tongue. He tastes slightly bitter, but not overly so, certainly no more than a slightly unripened apple, and when last of his pelvic convulsions finally slow to a standstill, she finds she has very little trouble containing the bounty of her efforts.

He is slumped against the vanity when she rises to her feet, his head angled forward and his spectacles displaced halfway down his nose. She isn’t sure if the way his nostrils are flaring is simply due to exhaustion, or whether it is a more foreboding sign; she takes a tentative step toward him and places a gentle hand on his chest. “Is everything… all right?”

“Please untie me.”

He doesn’t look up when he says it, and the redhead surmises it’s about the most animated reaction she can anticipate from a man who practically sharpens his teeth on his rookie lance pupils without even breaking a sweat. She reaches behind his back and fumbles with the end of the tie, half-expecting him to recover his dignity and march out of the bathroom the instant his left wrist is freed; he remains stagnant against the marbled countertop instead, moving only to return his spectacles to their proper place across his nose.

The heat of the moment is quickly dissipating with his ominously silent mood, and she frowns. “Are you angry with me?”

He finally glances up at her, his head tilted to one side, his eyes betraying nothing. “No.”

Her frown deepens. She’s seen the strategist grow aloof in the aftermath of their relations before, but there is something wholly distant in his expression she can’t quite put her finger on. “Then what is it?”

The necktie is still knotted around his right wrist, and it trails after him as he reaches out to caress her cheek. “Come here. I want to hold you.”

A queer sensation trickles down her spine; a few harmless pet names and bending the hours of their arrangement was one thing, but he was far too steeped in his devotion to the crown to show affection outside the confines of intimacy beyond the occasional peck on the cheek. “Are you feeling all right?”

The corners of his mouth curve upward faintly, and his hand falls to her waist and draws her close. Her eyebrows are knitted at this unusual display of tenderness, but she nestles herself between his legs—his erection is still hard as a rock, she notes—and leans to rest her chin on his shoulder.

He then snakes his arms around the small of her back and buries his face in her red locks. “You look magnificent,” he says quietly.

Her throat tightens, and she bites the inside of her cheek to stifle the feelings that are threatening to manifest themselves into tears; she’ll never have him the way she wants him, not entirely, and not because of their duties to the kingdom of Lucis, but because she knows deep down that the Six did not breath life into a man of his talents without a having a greater calling for him in mind.

His hand glides up her spine and stops at her neck, brushing her hair away from her shoulders as he touches his lips to the soft skin beneath her ear. Her own hands tighten around his chest, and she leans into his embrace; there will be plenty of time to fret about divine destinies later, and the gentle nibbles he is trailing along her jawline are admittedly working wonders to take her mind off of the hypothetical.

So she nuzzles her nose against his feathery temple and breathes in his scent; her ministrations from earlier must have been more laborious on his resolve than she first realized, because she is only just now noticing the light sheen of perspiration that dots his forehead. He finally pushes away from the vanity and draws himself up to his full height, guiding her hips with strong hands to the bit of marble countertop he just vacated, and braces his arms on either side of her to corral her in place.

“Darling,” she whispers, as he rakes his teeth across her collarbone, “you don’t have to continue for my sake. You must be utterly exhausted.”

“What was it you said earlier?” His hand finds the waistband of her panties and slithers beneath them. “Ah, yes— _‘I’m only just getting started.’_ ”

She snorts softly against his neck, but her amusement at his cheeky turn of phrase is short lived when he presses his long fingers inside of her. Then her beguilement is all but forgotten, and replaced by the singular desire to feel his warmth fill her entirely; she locks one ankle around the back of his knee and grinds her pelvis against his hand, and her insistence is rewarded when he massages his thumb across her sensitive hood.

His mouth returns to her face and he brushes his lips lightly against her own; she has little time for his chaste and gentle probing, however, and chases hungrily after his tongue instead. She is unable to stop the whine of disapproval from bubbling out of her throat when his hand disappears from between her thighs, but the strategist has a plan—just like he always does—and it requires the use of both hands to grip at her hips in order to lift her onto the edge of the vanity.

At the back of her mind, she can’t quite help chuckling quietly to herself at how ludicrous they must look in that moment; his necktie is dangling off of his right wrist like a wet noodle, his shirt rumpled and unbuttoned, his trousers and briefs halfway down his buttocks as he claws at the infinitesimally small strip of fabric separating his cock infuriatingly from her cunt. In truth, though, the redhead lives for moments like this, when their guards are down and their humanity is on full display, because even though he addresses her with cool and cordial formality at the Citadel, she knows the strategist has the same needs and desires of any other hot-blooded man that has fire coursing through his veins.

He shifts her weight in an attempt to displace the lacy accouterment, but it remains firmly wedged in her backside. “This would’ve been a lot easier if you had just let me take off my stockings,” she laughs.

“Remove my favorite accessory?” His spectacles lurch as his face crumples into a scowl. “Not on your life.”

Finally, he manages to push the stretchy fabric aside adequately enough to gain access to her warm folds. Her hand is already between his legs and gripping his shaft, her urgency to end this lustful torment as great as his; he clutches at her thigh to steady himself before he is plunging his searing heat inside of her like a pike impaling a fleshy target.

The air in her lungs all but evaporates, and her fingernails dig into the thickest part of his shoulders. His reaction is more subtle—not even the faintest cry of rapture escapes his lips—but she can feel his body shudder slightly when the full circumference of his girth meets the edge of her resistance. For a long moment, neither one of them moves, and the only discernible noise coming from the bathroom is the sound of their hearts beating furiously inside both their ribcages; then he is withdrawing from her, slowly, gently, agonizingly, returning his lips to the crook of her neck and nibbling at the baby soft skin there, before driving his hips forward again and resuming his occupancy fully inside of her.

How he is still so hard is beyond her, but she doesn’t protest or complain; if anything, the way the elastic of her wayward panties is capturing her nub between the base of his shaft is a miraculous serendipity that sends chills firing down her spine. The strategist notices this little development as well, she realizes, which really shouldn’t have surprised her in the least—it was his job to extract knowledge from the most trivial pieces of evidence, after all—but her eyes widen just the same when she feels him angle himself against the garment for a snugger fit.

_Is he competing with me?_  she wonders. Was this all just a wanton race to see who could bring the other one to climax the fastest? She would’ve admonished him if she’d had authority over her own voice, but the only thing she is able to utter in that moment is an unintelligible moan of pleasure. And it doesn’t really matter anyway, because the familiar pressure spreading throughout her lower belly is growing stronger with each passing thrust of his hips; her hands glide down the back of his dress shirt, unconsciously and autonomously, and clutch at his buttocks as her resolve frays like a quickly unraveling thread.

She can no longer see his face, because he is resting his chin on her shoulder now—bracing it, really—as he moves between her legs with methodical precision. But she can hear his breath shortening, his exhales breaking in time with the heart she feels thumping inside his chest. Her own pulse is screaming in her ears, but she ignores it in favor of focusing her attention solely on the sensation of his warmth grinding against the most tender part of her sex. When she closes her eyes, she can almost visualize her climax hovering on the edge of her consciousness; her nub throbs every time he eases away from her, only to glow like a star on the cusp of going supernova when the pressure resumes.

Two more thrusts and her vision begins to swim; another three, and the scales are tipping rapidly out of her favor; one final push, and she’s reached the point of no return. “Ignis,” she whispers, the thread disintegrating, the star finally exploding. “ _Ignis—_ ” 

He tightens his grip on her thigh, although whether it’s to balance himself or merely to calm the violent tremors ripping through her body, she isn’t sure. Each wave of her orgasm takes with it a piece of her voice, until her loud cries of ecstasy finally fall silent and she is gasping desperately for air like a dying Lucian carp. Her fingers are suctioned to his lower back like barnacles, as are her legs that have captured his slender waist in a vice grip, and she holds him close for what seems like an eternity as the spots of light dancing across her vision slowly fade.

_“Drat.”_

The strategist’s benign obscenity returns her to the here and now, and she finally loosens her grip over him. She then glances up at his face, only to see him staring down between her legs; when she follows his gaze, she sees the fabric of her undergarment clutched in his hand, tattered and ripped at the side seam.

“So much for quality,” he mutters. “I’d have thought for the money I paid, it would’ve held up at least a little better than that.”

A small smile touches her lips, and she traces her fingers lightly over his cheek. “I’m not quite sure lace is rated for this kind of strenuous activity.”

“Indeed.” He releases the scrap of fabric and readjusts his spectacles once more. “I suppose I’ll just have to take my business elsewhere next time.”

He then withdraws from her and helps her down off the vanity. She has to hold the two torn sides of her panties at her hip just to preserve her dignity, although considering he had himself buried to the testicles in her sex moments before, she supposes there isn’t much modesty left to be lost between them. He returns his own equipment to his briefs and zips up his trousers, but he leaves his shirt unbuttoned, and his necktie is still wrapped around his wrist; she is tempted to make a wry quip about his unusual lack of fastidiousness, but she knows his persnickety side will eventually spur him to cover himself, so she simply enjoys the sight of his taut abdominals on display for her viewing pleasure for as long as she can.

She then reaches for the binding of her corset to ease the tension in her compressed organs, until another thought suddenly occurs to her and stays her hand. “Do you mind if I stay for a little while?” she asks.

He is already at the threshold of the doorway, no doubt longing to excuse himself and his mild germaphopbia from lingering in the bathroom any longer. “Not at all. Don’t feel compelled to stay in that outfit, though—I’m sure your spleen is begging for mercy.”

“It’s not so bad, once you get use to it.” She releases the torn ends of her ruined underwear and lets them fall to the floor. “Besides—for what you paid, you ought to get a bit more of your money’s worth out of it.”

One quizzical eyebrow rises above his spectacles. “What precisely did you have in mind?”

They won’t always have this routine, the strategist and the redhead; the Empire was building garrisons across Lucis at that very instant, and the Astrals would undoubtedly intervene in her happiness once they finally revealed the celestial plans they had in store for the prince’s most loyal advisor. There were times when the reality of their fragile agreement cut through her heart like a cold dagger, its icy tendrils suffocating her with the same lethal proficiency Ignis Scientia reserved only for enemies of the crown.

But this was not one of those times, and their illusion of normalcy remains intact if only for a brief moment longer. “I don’t believe our arrangement forbids any party from brewing a pot of Ebony without wearing appropriate undergarments,” she says, as she struts past him and out of the bathroom. “How about another cuppa?”


End file.
